“You no want Modric?” Roman leaned forward, baring his teeth which, I noticed, were made of solid gold (or a convincing substitute).
“Oh, I have nothing against Luka Modric,” I responded, “but I don’t consider him the perfect fit for our current…”
“You no want Modric? Modric good. Modric effective in deep role while no Essien. I get Modric. You want Modric, I get Modric. You want Modric, I make the fat Redknapp squeal.”
“‘Arry no feel so t’riffic now,” the bodyguard growled, suddenly, with startling menace.
“Quiet Bulgarov. My apologies. Bulgarov get angry when people no compromise. Bulgarov get violent.”